


Expressive

by chiara_dayfield



Category: Bleach
Genre: Consent, Explicit Consent, Implied Consent, Light BDSM, M/M, Reiatsu Play
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-21
Updated: 2019-12-21
Packaged: 2021-02-26 07:09:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,298
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21879406
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chiara_dayfield/pseuds/chiara_dayfield
Summary: Anyone who thought Kuchiki Byakuya was a cold-hearted bastard---and Renji had been foremost among that number, though no longer---only needed to feel his reiatsu in one of an unguarded moment to learn otherwise."You respond well to this kind of instruction.""I—I guess I do. It's easier when I'm shown, rather than when I'm told. It was the same in the Academy, too.""Do you like it?"Byakuya's reiatsu had become a comfort to him, a token of his regard and trust. Its direction was always simple, straightforward, and true. It meant safety. That Byakuya would not let any harm come to him. Would take care of him."Yes."
Relationships: Abarai Renji/Kuchiki Byakuya
Comments: 7
Kudos: 127





	Expressive

Three years ago, Renji had made lieutenant. It was barely the blink of an eye for Soul Society, yet what an eventful three years it had been, culminating in the Blood War, so recently over. It, above even Aizen's betrayal, had created a stark gash on Seireitei's collective memory. All of the Divisions' considerable manpower was currently directed at the reconstruction effort, and yet it was not equal to the devastation that must be healed. Shreds of Yhwach's reiatsu still lingered, and the damage the Wandenreich had caused—the deaths, the destruction—remained painfully evident.

The sun was setting, and Renji, rotating off his reconstruction shift, was tired. His feet took him past his captain's office by rote—toward the Division bathhouse, then the mess hall, then his quarters, and, finally, rest—but he paused when he tasted Byakuya's reiatsu in the air. The man usually kept his reiatsu in tight control, enough that most seated officers could barely sense anything from him. It took another captain or a lieutenant, even a specialist from Covert Ops or the Kidou Corps, to sense him from a distance.

But, for Renji, Byakuya—consciously and otherwise—made an exception. A full ten paces away from his office, without even line of sight, Renji found Byakuya's reiatsu twisting lightly around him like a thin mist.

Distraction; invitation. Boredom, touched with impatience. Mild concern. Renji had never encountered reiatsu as expressive as Byakuya's, and he expected he never would. He'd first realised its extent when Byakuya had intercepted him on his way to rescue Rukia. His words as he'd dropped his scarf over Renji had been cold, but his reiatsu had wavered with something like sorrow, or perhaps regret. The beginnings or respect, even. That day, through the frustration of defeat, Renji had understood that Byakuya had spared his life not on whim, or principle, or necessity, but on sympathy. And his own simmering hatred—for the man who'd taken Rukia away from him, the man who, it seemed, was not quite Kuchiki Byakuya, after all—had begun to abate as well.

Since then, Renji had made it a point to pay closer attention when Byakuya's reiatsu made itself known. Byakuya used his reiatsu most often—though even this was not often at all, really—to instruct or command, and learning to notice and interpret his prompts was a Division requirement. They came abruptly and receded quickly, accompanied by a sharp sting—"pay attention", "that's an order"—or a slight pressure in a given direction—"move". It was, perhaps, a habit—a skill—born of being Senbonzakura's master; indeed, the Sixth prided itself on how smoothly it moved under their captain's command even on large-scale missions, as if they were merely an extension of his shikai.

But true sentiment lay veiled behind such imperatives, behind even the overwhelming impression of solemn duty, of quiet indifference. It flickered into view in vibrant, unlikely flashes, like sunlight from behind clouds on an overcast day, or a sudden spotlight scattering off a diamond. Renji found himself chasing those glimpses of Byakuya's truth, like a child chasing an elusive butterfly, captivated—mesmerised.

Anyone who thought Kuchiki Byakuya was a cold-hearted bastard—and Renji had been foremost among that number, though no longer—only needed to feel his reiatsu in one of those unguarded moments to learn otherwise. Rukia had felt it on their very first meeting: glimpses of intense love and loss, desperate, profound grief. It was why she'd accepted the adoption. She'd barely been able to cope with its full force when Byakuya, his control shot from the injuries he'd sustained, had revealed the truth about her sister to her.

Invitation, again; almost imperative, but not quite. Renji was free to do as he pleased, but Byakuya would prefer to see him. He closed the distance to his office, briskly turning the corner.

The Sixth's barracks were kept in the same style—and expense—as the Kuchiki compound, and, so, Byakuya's office opened, in three of four directions, on wooden walkways and meticulous gardens. The one wall, which Byakuya kept at his back, was adorned with a hanging scroll that bore the character for `duty' in painstaking, liquid calligraphy—most likely his own. The man, himself, was kneeling at his table over some paperwork.

Nothing was amiss; it seemed Byakuya didn't want him for anything in particular. He was probably only bored with his work, restless being confined to a desk after the constant activity of the war. Some earlier version of Renji, a year or two younger, would've been satisfied with that and walked right on.

Instead, he stood at parade rest on the walkway, in his captain's line of sight, and waited.

It had become something of a ritual between them—a patterned interaction, a greeting. The first day of normalcy after Aizen's defeat, Renji had reported to Byakuya's office, scarf in hand and painstakingly washed according to instructions from the Kuchiki servants. He'd wanted to return the thing and get back to his duties, but words had failed him at the last moment. He'd simply stood there, unsure how to face the man after all that had transpired. Byakuya had—of course—remained silent, but had seemed more awkward than hostile. Eventually, it was his reiatsu that bridged the gap—warm, intimate, a soft cloak wrapped around his shoulders by careful, tentative, hands. Peace, forgiveness, gratitude, and respect.

Renji had been prepared for anything but gentleness; it weighed heavier than anything he'd expected. He'd sunk to his knees, and Byakuya's reiatsu cradled him even as he knelt. "Your scarf, Captain," was all he'd managed.

"Thank you, Renji." Byakuya's voice had been flat, but Renji had leaned instead into the warmth of his reiatsu.

Something had changed between them, that day. Rukia had once defined their relationship: her estranged friend and adoptive brother, natural enemies—but no longer so. They were captain and lieutenant, and not just of the Gotei Thirteen, not just of the Sixth Division. They began to belong to each other in that particular way of brothers-in-arms, Byakuya and Renji, Renji's captain and Byakuya's lieutenant.

Renji had always been a loyal sort; he put down roots easily, given the chance, and those roots did not wither. He had crossed blades with Byakuya and survived, been rewarded with precious regard; he had fought beside him, seen death with him, and returned a neat pace behind him and to the side. He would do more still, if Byakuya would lead him there.

Byakuya's reiatsu curled loosely around Renji, a wordless murmur that assured Renji he was not being ignored. The work was tiresome, and it had to be done, though Byakuya was bored—lonely, even? Solicitous, but not imposingly so.

Renji stepped up to the tatami of the office and dropped into an easy kneel. Byakuya did not look up, but his reiatsu eddied with pleasure. It came through crystal clear that he appreciated the company, even if the man would never admit it verbally.

Renji was awful at waiting, and worse at meditation. But it was so much easier, under the weight of Byakuya's reiatsu. Easier to be still, to let go. There was no need to be alert for enemies, no need to lead the rest of the Division, no need to snap to the next task. His captain's presence, deadly as it was, meant absolute safety. Byakuya would lead; Byakuya would prompt him if anything was required of him.

Ensconced in Byakuya's reiatsu, Renji felt his breathing slow and ease to match its subtle pulse. Slow, deep breaths—every twist of his own reiatsu singing clear in his veins—Zabimaru running wild and free in his soul's inner sanctum.

* * *

Renji was led from his trance by Byakuya's reiatsu; he followed it as it withdrew, and found himself aware once more. It was not too much later—the horizon was still touched with a dull red, and his legs were not entirely numb—, but Byakuya's paperwork had shifted from one pile to another.

"Thank you for all your hard work, Captain." The greeting was reflexive.

"And the same to you." Byakuya's gaze was unwavering, piercing. "Have you plans for the evening?"

There was a shade of uncertainty, there. Byakuya's reiatsu withdrew before Renji could examine it further. He frowned; it was unlike Byakuya—the Byakuya he'd come to know, at least—to hide from him in this way.

"No plans, sir."

"Good. Make yourself presentable, then come to the Kuchiki compound. You will dine with me."

Renji could refuse, of course. Despite the imperative turn of phrase, Byakuya—adamant about the ethics of hierarchy—would never take offence at a refusal. But it was infinitesimally rare for Byakuya to speak so bluntly, not to mention that the invitation, itself, was a great honour. More than anything, though, Renji found himself curious, a strange anticipation flickering in his belly.

"Of course, Captain."

* * *

Byakuya's personal quarters were sequestered deep within the Kuchiki compound, and, even though it was yet twilight, they were blanketed in a stillness that stole Renji's breath. Crickets chirped in the warm summer air, but all else was silent. The paper doors were all thrown wide open, and warm light spilt from each room onto the walkways surrounding them. Byakuya was seated in a room set up for dining, two sets of fine laquerware already laid out before him.

The servant that had led Renji bowed and ghosted away.

Renji felt Byakuya's reiatsu brush against his, but the sensation faded quickly. It was as if Byakuya had reached for him out of habit, subconsciously, and only restrained himself at the last moment. Renji opened his senses, his own reiatsu relaxed in invitation, but Byakuya did not respond.

Instead: "Sit, Renji."

The verbal command was disorienting; Renji had grown accustomed to being manoeuvred with wordless instructions. Nonetheless, he obeyed, carefully folding himself into seiza across his captain. Byakuya was keeping his reiatsu close, so Renji had to guess at what was appropriate. Alone, and in personal quarters: perhaps he should relax a little more. Then again, it was an immense privilege to be allowed within the Kuchiki grounds, let alone to dine with the clan head in private. He kept his back straight, and his hands in careful fists, precisely positioned over his knees.

There was a soft huff, and Renji realised Byakuya was laughing.

"Is it that uncomfortable?"

Renji felt a blush rise on his face. He was simply out of his element—all this finery about them, Byakuya in a elegant grey kimono and matching white haori, and Renji had only managed his best uniform. No doubt even the servants were wondering what business he had with their master. "No, sir. I'm just—not used to it."

Byakuya's reiatsu unfurled—Renji leaned into it gratefully—and gently guided him into a more open position, before withdrawing again.

"Be at ease; we are alone. Eat."

Renji looked over the food, all in dainty portions, but in an impressive variety. Multiple dishes of fish and meat, decorated with vibrant greens and other colourful vegetables. Platters of shellfish he couldn't name; cups of delicately steamed egg. Even the accompanying rice and soup were so fragrant it was difficult to relate them to the fare in the mess halls.

Nervous energy shot through Renji belatedly. He might as well have been waiting to ambush an enemy, even though he was only reaching for his chopsticks. By the Soul King, he didn't know how these aristocrats lived with all their fancy trappings. Byakuya would no doubt eat as gracefully as anything, and any attempt Renji made to follow suit would end in utter disaster.

He swallowed, and put his hands together. "—Thank you for the food."

Byakuya's slate grey eyes, scrutinising and sharp as always, didn't miss a thing. "What is it, Renji?"

The words were cold and keenly felt. Renji knew Byakuya hadn't t intended to wound—in truth, the man rarely did—, but it was difficult to believe without the reassurance that his reiatsu lent. He gestured helplessly at his tray. "I can't eat the way you do, Captain. You know I'm just a street rat."

"You may eat however you like. As I said, we are alone here."

Relief—but it was hollow. Renji had felt—first-hand, as if it were his own—Byakuya's grief on Hisana's death anniversary, his ever-growing fondness for Rukia, his childhood ire for Yoruichi (yet unabated), and even his secret delight at letting himself loose against Kenpachi. What was this, now, or, worse, what had Renji done, that Byakuya would keep it from him?

And why invite Renji to dine with him? There were only so many reasons Renji could imagine, but each was only more presumptuous than the last. He chewed lightly at the inside of his cheek, wiling his heartbeat to quiet.

Perhaps, he might take a chance. "You could—show me?"

A beat, during which he was subjected to Byakuya's inscrutable gaze once more.

"I'm sorry, that was out of line—"

"No, not at all."

Byakuya's reiatsu wound around him, shifting and guiding, lifting his elbow and correcting the arc of his wrist. It pressed tighter than it usually did, more tactile and more intent. He was directed to hold his chopsticks and rice bowl just so, and to go through the dishes in such an order. The food was to be picked apart as carefully as it had been put together, and there was a rhythm to it, a flow. Renji yielded.

The meal passed silently and smoothly, Byakuya puppeteering Renji expertly even as he, himself, ate. Not a single grain of rice, nor a single drop of soup, fell on Renji's tray. He felt strangely accomplished, and the pleasure of a job well done—although, what had he done, really?—suffused his chest as surely as the excellent food satisfied his belly. This time, Byakuya's reiatsu did not retreat, but remained around him, permeating the air.

"You respond well to this kind of instruction."

"I—I guess I do. It's easier when I'm shown, rather than when I'm told. It was the same in the Academy, too." A pause. Was that comparison an insult? An Academy instructor against a Gotei captain? "Not that any of the instructors could use their reiatsu the way you do."

"Do you like it?"

Renji was already halfway toward an affirmative answer when he caught himself. Like it? Like—this? Byakuya's reiatsu had pulled away slightly, but Renji could still feel it shimmering around him, alert and attentive. It was fearsome in battle, and he would appreciate never being on the wrong end of Senbonzakura again, but it really had become a comfort to him. Its presence was a token of his captain's regard and trust. Its direction was always simple, straightforward, and true. It meant safety, that Renji could let go. That Byakuya would—not let any harm come to him. Would—take care of him.

"Yes."

"You should be careful. It's dangerous; not to be taken lightly."

But Renji heard Byakuya's response only distantly. The man had risen, and his reiatsu, warm and vaguely cloying, had prompted Renji to do the same. They skirted the building—the gardens and walkway now drenched in moonlight—until they came to another room. The layout was much the same as the previous: there were two cushions in the centre of the room, across from each other. Byakuya's reiatsu directed Renji onto one, while Byakuya himself retrieved something from a chest before taking the other.

It was a tantou, its hilt, sheathe, and guard all elaborately ornamented. It might have looked like Renji took it and drew it unprompted, but he was still on strings, Byakuya's reiatsu more tactile than ever. Renji was saturated in warmth and—praise, approval, Byakuya's pleasure at his obedience. Was this what the man had been guarding so carefully? There was no need! Renji would never have taken it for granted; he would do anything to stay like this, to show how much he appreciated Byakuya's favour in turn.

Before he knew it, he'd positioned the point of the blade to his own belly. Another touch, just so, and he would draw it across his gut. He would. He wanted to.

Byakuya's reiatsu vanished, and Renji snapped to. He held perfectly still, feeling the weight of the tantou in his grip, the embroidery on the handle pressing against the skin of his palm—the point of the blade through his robes. The world, so suffused in light just a moment ago, seemed dull and dark, shadowed.

His voice was hoarse when he spoke. "Did you want me to, Captain?"

"No. It was merely a demonstration. Would you do it, on my order?"

"I—" What was the correct answer? Renji was lost, adrift. Anything, to be cocooned in that radiance again. "Yes. I would."

Across from him, Byakuya frowned. His reiatsu reached between them once more, a gentle hand, soothing and without its earlier guile. Renji breathed deep and slow, until the adrenaline bled from his system, and he could see the room around him for what it was. Just another room, just him and his captain.

"If there was a valid reason—I might."

He carefully resheathed the tantou and placed it on the floor between them, its blade still pointed toward him. He returned his hands to his lap, and closed them into fists to keep them from shaking.

"What did you do to me?"

Byakuya's reiatsu twisted guiltily. "I should not have taken advantage. Forgive me."

Deep breaths, still, slow and steady. "That doesn't answer my question."

"You are like Senbonzakura—strong, yet receptive—beautiful."

Byakuya would not meet his eyes, but he did not hide his reiatsu. It wavered and spread restlessly, a mist carried by opposing winds. This was what he'd been hiding—fear, doubt, shame. Renji couldn't help a small smile. For all that he was, Byakuya was, after all, only human.

He looked down at his hands, allowing his fists to open and accepting the slight trembling that still ran in them. "I might not kill myself, but I will gladly bleed for you, Captain." A breath. "That, and more. You know that."

That visibly startled Byakuya, enough that he looked up, and their eyes met.

"You will dine with me again."

It was meant to be a question. Renji read as much from the tense uncertainty that swept through Byakuya's reiatsu.

"Yes, of course." The air was electric between them. Perhaps the aftereffects from earlier had yet to completely wear off; perhaps Renji was still a child chasing an elusive butterfly; perhaps he was still a wolf howling at the moon. He took another chance. "Am I dismissed for the night, Captain?"

"Use my name, Renji."

Not his title, nor his clan, but his name. _Byaku—ya_ , Renji rehearsed in his head: "Byakuya-san."

Byakuya's reiatsu coiled around him, snug and lightly constricting. It was warm, warmer than it had ever been, and not gentle, but fiery, like spice and—and lust. It was not overwhelming; it did not claim his mind like it had earlier, and it did not make any attempt at control. It simply melded with his own reiatsu in invitation, burning, burning. A matching heat bloomed in Renji's belly.

"How is this?"

"It's good." Renji had to bite back a moan. "Byakuya-san. It's good."

"Then, you are not dismissed."

Byakuya moved the tantou away, and Renji found himself guided forward on his knees, until he was face-to-face with the man. Byakuya pulled his reiatsu back to himself once more, but they were now close enough that Renji could nonetheless feel it sizzling with that uncharacteristic heat.

"May I kiss you, Renji?"

"Yes—please."


End file.
